


What You Are

by melonbutterfly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Tarsus IV, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock and Jim are getting closer and closer, gravitating towards each other. They're not quite there yet, though, and Jim has something important to tell Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: _mentions_ of past underage and dub-con (prostitution).
> 
>  
> 
>  _The shock of any trauma, I think changes your life. It's more acute in the beginning and after a little time you settle back to what you were. However it leaves an indelible mark on your psyche._  
>  Alex Lifeson

"I – I need to tell you something."

Spock looks up from where he was gathering the chess pieces to look at Jim, whose eyes are fixed somewhere to the side, unseeing. His back is stiff, as opposed to the relaxed position he has lounged in during their game, and his face is wearing an expression Spock has never seen on him before; somewhere between emotionless and tense, tight and with a trace of distaste. "Yes?", he says slowly and places the pieces on the table, focusing completely on his Captain. Nineteen months, thirteen days and nine hours has Jim been in that position now, and their relationship couldn't be more different from where it had been back at the start. They're friends now, closer than friends actually; Spock isn't quite sure when the turning point was, how it happened. It was a gradual change they both had no control over where no control was wanted or needed anyway. Not even with Nyota, with whom his sexual relationship has ended nine months ago now, has he been this close, emotionally and intellectually.

"You know I was on Tarsus IV," Jim says, and it's not a question.

Spock straightens, confirms with an "I'm aware" anyway because Jim looks like he needs it. A confirmation that Spock really is listening, paying attention, even though he himself probably is not even aware of this need, so tiny is it, because he knows Spock is always listening, paying attention. But needs are not rational, or logical; Spock has learned that long ago.

Jim has never spoken about it before; Spock has read it in his file but never referred to it, and Jim must know he knows because they once talked about having read each other's files. But simply being aware of the facts and them being relayed to him in person are two different things; not in outcome, but as a mark of the state their relationship is at. It must be trauma for Jim, and yet he is willing to talk about it to Spock now.

"Have you ever wondered how I survived?", Jim asks, looks at him for the first time. His eyes are empty, completely devoid of any expression or emotion, and, as illogical as it is, Spock does not care for Jim looking like that.

"I did not in particular," he admits, mind half busy analysing any of Jim's body language, which is difficult because there is so little of it – but that in itself is a message, too. "Since it is obvious that you did, I considered speculations unnecessary. I assume you were in the half of the population that was allowed to survive?" He has to be careful, very careful; one false question and Jim might close off, change the topic, or worse, feel insulted. It is a delicate matter, Spock is well aware.

"Unnecessary," Jim repeats slowly, looking away again. He sounds thoughtful rather than offended, and Spock is wary. He did not mean to offend Jim or convey the message that he was not interested in the knowledge; everything about Jim was worth knowing to him. Jim was the exception to the rule that in general, he did not care much for the personal emotions or ponderings of a person if they could not contribute to a fruitful discussion.

Jim leans back a little. "That is a good word, unnecessary," he says. "And correct, for most people. But I wanted to tell you, if you want to know, that is?"

"Of course," Spock answers a little too quickly, and Jim nods, lowers his gaze, licks his lips, looks up again. They're nervous gestures, and yet his face betrays nothing of that reaction.

"Well, I- actually, I _was_ part of the half of the population that was 'allowed' to survive. Only I wasn't too good at obeying orders, and when I was told to leave my aunt's family, including my three younger cousins, while they were going to this 'meeting', I didn't obey. So I was there. When Kodos gave the orders, I mean. And the following massacre, of course, but it was the witnessing-part that signed my death warrant in Kodos' eyes. He did not care much for witnesses. It didn't really work out either, this splitting the population in half thing; well, you know the facts. And the ensuing famine, the wars. And that very soon, food was terribly rare despite all of Kodos' precautions, however horrible they might have been; they should have at least been effective, don't you think?"

Spock makes no noise, well aware that this time, Jim does not need nor want an affirmation or interruption. He tries not to picture twelve-years-old Jim, skinny with hunger, trying to survive in a world where everyone is suddenly enemy. It serves no logical purpose, this picture, is actually fairly distressing, but he can't get rid of it. He imagines it might be because he sees traces of the horror Jim faced in his empty eyes, expressionless voice.

"Well, they weren't. At all. And I had to be on the run from soldiers as well, who had been instructed to pay especial attention to surviving witnesses. Only nine survived, did you know that?"

Spock nods. He does.

"Yeah, so. I was on my own. Everyone was on their own, sooner or later; most children died very early, unable to cope with the hunger and the stress of constantly moving, the constant fear and fight. It really wasn't easy.

"The soldiers had food, though. And there were some people who knew how to get it from them. You only had to find out how to get it from those people, then you were fairly safe – as long as neither that person nor the soldier that was their contact died, that is."

Jim tilts his head, still looking to the side and seeing nothing that is actually there. "I had this little boy with me, Kevin. Kevin Riley. We met pretty early on, when our families had just been killed and we were both mad with grief and fear and fury. But reality didn't wait for us to cope, and soon all we felt was hunger. It's pretty interesting that the first thing you lose is not your mind, but your emotions, isn't it? Apart from the hallucinations, of course." Very obviously lost in thought, Jim takes a sip of his tea; Spock doesn't move a muscle in fear of breaking Jim's concentration, diverting his attention to himself and not to what he wants to tell. It's not because Spock really wants to hear what Jim is saying, apart from the fact that he wants to know; it's because he knows that Jim needs to speak about it. If he didn't, if telling were any bad for Jim, Spock would stop him, no matter how much he (perhaps illogically, perhaps because of a beautiful, new logic; he is not yet sure) yearns to learn everything there is to know about Jim Kirk.

"Taking care of Kevin suddenly became very important to me," Jim continues finally. "I now know that it was probably a coping mechanism; a distraction, something good for me to concentrate on, but back then, all I knew that it was vital he survive, he be fine. If only he'd be fine, I'd be fine as well.

"But he wasn't. He was only six years old, still growing and way too young to deal with such horror, and I was way too young to know how to take care of him properly. All I knew was that he needed food; everything else I was pretty much oblivious to. I mean, I knew he needed more, but I didn't know what or how to get it. So I concentrated on the food, brought him pretty much anything I could find; I barely kept anything to myself, only enough to ensure I'd be able to get up the next morning.

"Though of course," Jim ruthfully stretches his lips; it cannot be called a smile, Spock thinks. Not when usually all other smiles of Jim are so much warmer, alive and vibrant. "Conventional things like proper morning, midday and evening did not exist anymore. You only tried to survive, no matter what time of day or night it was.

"Anyways." Jim takes another sip of his tea that must have turned cold by now. "It got harder and harder to keep him healthy, to even keep him strong enough to keep on moving. And I wasn't stupid; I knew I needed food too, and though I let him have the lion's share of everything, I didn't totally neglect myself. And I felt terrible about it, thinking that if I didn't eat at all, he'd be better off – and that's true, but I also knew that if I didn't eat at all soon I wouldn't be doing anything anymore, and then Kevin would have no one to take care of him anymore, no one to bring him food in the first place. It was rather simple, but at the same time not at all."

Jim turns quiet now, doesn't speak for several long minutes before visibly straightening his back, turning to look Spock in the eyes, maybe looking for something that Spock can only hope he finds. "What I'm trying to say is, the more difficult it got to get food, the more determined I became, and in the end I did pretty much anything to keep him fed. And I mean _any_ thing." He looks at Spock now as if expecting him to realise what he means, but Spock fails to do so. "I mean, trading myself. My body. As in, prostitution."

Spock keeps still. He had never considered that, had been too naïve to assume that this might have been necessary, even though now that he knows, it's so obvious.

Jim looks away again, as if he expected a reaction in Spock that he has failed to show and is now disappointed, disconcerted, dis-something. And Spock still does not know how to react, what to do or say; what is Jim expecting? Comfort? That would be illogical, because Spock certainly is not someone who makes it a habit to comfort unhappy humans. On the other hand, he and Jim are friends, and as such, a certain level of comfort-giving is expected, is it not?

"I- I just thought you should know," Jim says, and his voice sounds a little shaky, uncertain; he's looking down, not meeting Spock's eyes. "I never told anyone else, but I thought you should… know."

Spock leans forward a little, still terribly confused and not sure what Jim is expecting, what he _wants_ ; what he should give him. And there is also the fact that reacting the way Jim wants him to would be lying, and he does not want to lie. Not to Jim.

So he settles with honesty. "Jim," he says, and Jim doesn't look up. "I am unsure how you expect me to react. I appreciate you telling me; I realise it must have been… difficult. But I do not quite understand the significance – I knew you were on Tarsus IV, that you suffered, and I must admit I am almost harbouring the illogical wish that I could go back in time and change that, though of course if I in fact did I would not be able to because of the Prime Directive, but that is the illogic of such a thought. Yet, I must admit I am unable to completely comprehend why it is such an important matter to you." But he is considering something Jim has said that he had not paid enough attention to at the time; he said that Spock was the first person he ever told. Does this mean nobody is aware of it, or that he just has not told anyone? Doctors should have recognised the signs, Spock thinks, but maybe they failed to do so or when Tarsus IV was rescued, all visible signs had healed already. More important is, though, if it means that Jim might ever be compromised because of this. Has he made peace with that part of his past? He must have had; Starfleet surely had him go through extensive psychological tests and evaluations before they admitted him, certainly before they gave him command; if it really were a core point of his personality, a so-called 'sore spot', they would have had found out. Jim is not unfit for command because of a past trauma, and should a recent trauma bring that past trauma back (Spock is in danger of that happening too, with the destruction of Vulcan and his mother's death), he can always be declared momentarily unfit for command, just like Spock was back then. Most important is, though, that Spock now specifically knows what to look out for and can probably prevent anything too dramatic.

Jim has looked up while he spoke, visibly startled, slight disbelief slowly appearing on his face; Spock is relieved he is wearing an expression at all again and does not care much what it is, on an emotional level. He's fairly sure he doesn't offend Jim with his workds, and that's all that matters. When Spock finishes speaking, Jim tilts his head a little in a way that Spock knows occasionally and at the moment most likely means he is thinking deeply about what he said.

He thinks about it for one point three six minutes, and then, suddenly, he smiles; there's relief in that smile and something like happiness, caused by that relief and the abrupt release of tension. "You're right," he says. "God, Spock, you're right. _Thank you_."

Now Spock is truly confused; he does not know at all what Jim means. Before he can ask, though, Jim startles him into silence with a quick laugh; he then shakes his head and, there is no other proper description for it, beams at Spock.

Spock hesitates for the fracture of a second before he says, "I must admit I am unaware what you are thanking me for, Jim. Could you perhaps enlighten me?"

Jim shakes his head, not in reaction to Spock's question, unexpectedly leans forward to grab Spock's right hand between his and says, "Just never change, promise me that." Without waiting for a reply, he leans back – Spock's hand still caught between his, holding it close to his heart, subsequently forcing Spock to lean forwards to keep in contact, which he _wants_ to – and closes his eyes, relaxing in his seat. Spock cannot feel his heartbeat through his uniform, but if he were romantic, he would imagine he could, maybe even pretend to.

He does not. Neither does he tell Jim that it is impossible and illogical (and, worst of all, dishonest) to promise such a thing.

And he doesn't pull away.


End file.
